Deep and Silent Waters (16 page)

Now the manager did look impressed. ‘I’d no idea! You must do something for us, something special that will fit in with our décor.’

Nico glanced around, his brows lifting in disbelief. Something that fitted in with all this turn-of-the-century kitsch? But the lift arrived before he had to answer. ‘
Ciao
,’ he said, then as the doors closed he began to laugh.

A few floors up the lift stopped, the doors opened and Laura Erskine walked in. He looked at her with real pleasure: she knew how to dress, this girl – he admired the white cotton tunic she was wearing. The simplicity was perfect for her: elegant, sophisticated, exciting, with that Titian hair in soft coils around her face and her long, long legs beneath the white cotton, touchably smooth in sheer stockings. Few women had that height, even fewer the ability to carry it off, with head held high, moving with cool grace, the touching vulnerability of a foal.

‘
Ciao
,’ he said softly, and for a second saw a freezing rejection in her face because she hadn’t yet looked at him closely. Then she did a double-take, her features unlocked and she smiled shyly.

‘Oh, hello, it’s you. I didn’t recognise you for a second.’

She was pale this morning, he noted, her beautiful green eyes underlined by bluish shadows on that delicate skin, and there was a faint quiver on the wide, generous mouth. What bone structure! He traced it from the high temples to the fine jawline. Wonderful.

Had she dined here last night, with wine flowing freely? She looked as if she was suffering from a hangover.

‘Oh, we’re all linguists in Venice,’ he said. ‘We need to speak most of the major European languages. People are our business and we can’t expect our visitors to speak Italian.’ He grinned. ‘Late night?’

A warm pink flush ran up her face, delighting him. It suited her better, that glowing colour. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was husky and self-conscious.

She wouldn’t blush like that over a mere dinner party. What had she been doing last night? And with whom? Nico found himself interested in the questions, even more so in the answers.

‘You are going to sit for me, aren’t you?’ he asked, his brain busy with suggestions and conclusions. How involved was she with Sebastian? Newspaper gossip had reached them here, but how much fire was there behind all that smoke? ‘I have an idea for a piece. It’s vague at the moment, and I’m not sure how it will go when I actually start work, but I was thinking of doing you as David.’

She stared blankly at him. ‘What?’

‘A female
David
– you know, Michelangelo’s statue in Florence.’

Still baffled, she nodded slowly. ‘Of course.’

‘And there are many others, of course.’

‘Many other what?’ She was watching him as if he was talking in riddles.

‘
Davids
. He was always a popular subject for artists through the Middle Ages, the little man who takes on a giant and wins. And it occurred to me that this is the age of feminism, of women taking on every aspect of man’s world so it seems to me time to have a female
David
, a very young
David
taking on the world of men in what appears to be a hopeless struggle. What do you think? Now, be honest! If you think the idea is crazy, say so.’

‘Oh, no! I didn’t get what you meant at first, but I love it,’ she said, as the lift stopped and they got out. ‘What a brilliant idea! It’s amazing that nobody’s thought of it before. What would I wear?’

He laughed – every woman who ever sat for him asked that question. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to pose in the nude.’

Her colour deepened to a lovely glowing rose. ‘I didn’t think you would!’

‘No?’ His eyes were faintly cynical, a little mocking. ‘Most women think of that right away. They assume artists always want to get their clothes off! But, actually, I’d ask you to wear more or less what you’re wearing now. A simple tunic ending above the knees, and your hair just like it is today. Those curls are oddly similar to the way Donatello’s
David
wears his hair, you know.’

‘I only know Michelangelo’s.’

‘You’ll find Donatello’s
David
in Florence, too, but in bronze not stone, a slender boy, very camp, with a lot of curves, wearing a hat over long hair.’

‘A hat? What sort of hat?’

‘Just like one you would see at Ascot today.’ He grinned. ‘A charming little hat, you’ll love it. Women always do. The Donatello is very different from the Michelangelo statue – that
David
is stern and frowning, with a lot of muscle, very grave, very masculine. Donatello’s has one hand on his hip in a provocative pose – yet he’s holding a massive sword in one hand – you can’t believe he could ever lift it to cut off Goliath’s head!’

They walked along the corridor and paused to ring the doorbell of Sebastian’s suite. Nico propped himself against the wall, arms folded.

‘I see you in exactly the same position as the Donatello, but holding out the head of Goliath.’

She shuddered. ‘How horrible! No, I couldn’t do that, don’t ask!’

‘You wouldn’t really be holding a head – I’d need you to hold something, to give me the muscular contraction, but I could work on the head itself later without needing you to be there.’ He caught her hands, moved closer. ‘Say you’ll do it! Don’t stop to think – say yes!’

The door of the suite opened. Sebastian looked from one to the other of them, eyes razor-sharp as he took in their linked hands.

In what she knew to be a defensive voice Laura said quickly, ‘We met in the lift coming up here,’ and pulled her hands free.

Nico shot her an alert glance; she avoided his eyes. He saw too much, was far too aware, and she had things she wanted to hide, from him as well as from Sebastian. Her heart was awash with terrifying memories; the note she had found on her pillow this morning and which could only have been put there by Sebastian, the intensity of their love-making last night, Clea plunging to her death from a high window, his tenderness, the warmth of his body as he held her all night, close and secure, as if he loved her, the kitten that had somehow died in the Grand Canal after she had left it on a cushion in Ca’ d’Angeli.

She couldn’t make sense of any of it. Sebastian was a divided soul, moving between night and day, darkness and light, and so were her emotions: love and fear fought inside her without either winning.

‘Come in,’ Sebastian said coldly, just as a rattling of dishes on a table being wheeled along the corridor proclaimed the arrival of their breakfast.

He had opened the high windows of the sitting room, which led out on to a balcony. A cool morning breeze blew through the elegantly furnished room: soft gauzy curtains rustled and flew up, and the distant salty smell of the sea filled the air.

‘
Buon giorno
, Signorina, Signori,’ the waiter said, negotiating the table through the open door of the suite. Sebastian directed him towards the balcony, then asked the others, ‘Okay with you if we eat out there?’

‘That would be wonderful, it’s so cool at this hour, after that hot night.’ Laura was afraid to meet his eyes. The words he had written in that note kept echoing around her head. Why did he want her dead? Especially after last night. They had begun with a struggle and anger, but after they had made love there had been a deep peace between them.

Sebastian had his back to her, was speaking to the waiter. She walked out on to the balcony, only to stop dead, a fluttering of panic in her breast as she saw how high up they were.

Hands screwed into fists, gulping air as if she was suffocating, she stood by the open french windows.

She had never suffered from vertigo before – the first time had been an hour ago when she had looked out of the bathroom window and felt she was going to fall out. Now the same terror had her by the throat again. She was afraid to move in any direction.

Neither of the men seemed aware of what was happening to her. The waiter was moving things around on the white-damask-covered table, putting out orange juice in white-capped glasses set in silver bowls of ice, baskets of hot rolls, croissants, little cakes, silver pots of coffee and hot milk.

After glancing over the table to check that they had everything they needed, Sebastian tipped the waiter, who bowed and left. Nico walked to the rail and gazed down over the green trees to the golden sands. Laura wanted to cry out to him, ‘Keep away from the edge!’ but she was pressed against the wall, unable to move or speak.

‘Sit down, Laura,’ Sebastian said, watching her with those dark wells of eyes. She stared back at him, like a rabbit hypnotised by a snake, seeing death dancing in front of it but unable to escape.

Was Sebastian silently willing her to throw herself off the balcony? Was this why Clea had thrown herself to her death? Laura remembered vividly how she had felt the power of Sebastian’s will when they were working together. She had obeyed him as if she had no will of her own.

‘Come and have breakfast.’ Sebastian walked over to her and took her arm. He looked startled. ‘You’re freezing! Why are you so cold? Are you ill? What’s wrong?’

His touch, the words, broke the spell. She blinked, her pallor was invaded by a rush of red, and she stammered, ‘No, no, I’m fine, just … I don’t like heights.’

His eyes sharpened into scalpels that probed her face. ‘I don’t remember that. How long has it been going on?’

Nico had turned to watch them. Laura was staring up into Sebastian’s face, seeing there the remembrance of Clea’s death. She was still between them.

Jealousy made a bitter taste in her mouth and she swallowed, jerked away her head and was suddenly able to move. ‘I’m fine now.’ She walked away from Sebastian and sat down at the table, her back to the view of the hotel grounds, the rail and the long drop to the ground. She picked up her glass of chilled orange juice and took a sip.

Nico sat down beside her. ‘You have promised to pose for me, haven’t you? I’m very excited by my idea. I think it will be a sensation.’

He took a croissant, tore off a piece and chewed it, his teeth very white, charmingly uneven, against his tanned olive skin.

‘What idea?’ Sebastian poured coffee, black and fragrant. Its scent filled Laura’s nostrils. Every tiny impression seemed too intense this morning. She felt as if this might be the last morning of her life – everything meant so much.

What is the matter with me? she asked herself, watching Sebastian drink his coffee while he watched her in turn with eyes that were full of questions.

‘I don’t want it talked about in case somebody else steals it,’ Nico said. ‘You know what the art business is like. A new idea is like gold dust – everyone is on the look-out for one, and I don’t work fast. I like to take my time, get something absolutely right. If anybody knew what I was doing, somebody who worked faster than me could come out with their piece, and mine would be worthless.’

‘I’m intrigued. But when is Laura going to sit for you? She leaves tomorrow.’ Sebastian kept his eyes on her.

She didn’t answer, so he shrugged. ‘Well, if you don’t want to talk about your idea, we’ll talk about mine. I’ve got an option on
The Lily
, that Frederick Canfield book set in the Second World War. Do you remember? I’ve had it in development for a year or so. We’ve got a script, of sorts, and a storyboard. The money should be okay, if I get the right casting.’

‘I’ve read it several times,’ Nico said, tense with interest his face golden in the morning sunlight. ‘A brilliant novel. Are you going to cast Laura as the girl?’

‘I’m hoping she’ll agree. She’d be perfect, and it would be a wonderful role for her, at this stage of her career. She has to move up a step or two and what she needs is a big box-office success. This film would be it.’ He was talking to Laura rather than Nico, watching her. He finished his orange juice and pushed the glass back into its bed of melting ice, turning it round and round so that the ice clinked and groaned.

‘Which brings me to what I wanted to discuss with you.’ He talked rapidly, barely taking a breath between sentences, to make sure Nico didn’t interrupt him. ‘If your mother would agree, I’d like to use Ca’ d’Angeli for some of the location work. I’d probably need it for a month or so. You and she could take a holiday, leave a servant to keep an eye on the place, make sure we didn’t do any damage. You’ve no need to worry, I assure you. We wouldn’t make any structural alterations, and probably wouldn’t change the decor at all – it fits the book perfectly. Antique furniture is fine for any period and, if you remember, the house in the book is very much like Ca’ d’Angeli. Even the garden is perfect. But do you think your mother will agree, or not?’

‘I wasn’t expecting this!’ Nico said. ‘I own the house so it is my decision, but I’d have to consult my mother, for courtesy’s sake, and she may not like the idea.’

‘It would pay very well – I don’t suppose sculptors make a fortune, do they? And the house must cost a lot in upkeep. Think of what you could do with the money!’

Nico looked sideways at Laura. ‘Would you stay with us at Ca’ d’Angeli while you’re in Venice making this film? Then, when you aren’t needed for a scene, you could pose for me.’

She heard Sebastian shift in his chair, felt tension in him, carefully didn’t risk looking in his direction. Cupping her hands round her coffee cup, she nodded. ‘Okay.’

After all, what difference was there between posing for a photographer and posing for an artist? What you were doing was basically the same: a matter of training in patience and response, giving the photographer or artist what they wanted. Certainly a photography session involved lots of movement, using props, changing mood – smiling, being serious, looking tigerish or sweet, playing up to the camera as if it was a man you loved – and when you were posing for an artist you had to keep still, not move a muscle, hold a pose for ages. She could imagine that that would be exhausting, and probably tedious, if it went on for too long. But it would be fascinating to watch Nico working: she had never known a sculptor before and she would have plenty to think about while she was modelling for him. No doubt he would give her a break every so often.